


still worship the flame

by stormss



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Everybody Lives, First Kiss, Fix-It, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22012642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormss/pseuds/stormss
Summary: The commotion in the cavern slowly lulls, echoed voices and the crashing of falling debris turning into white noise. And Eddie dreams of the ocean.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh (mentioned), Eddie Kaspbrak & Everyone, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 20
Kudos: 151





	still worship the flame

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! so i didn't think that i'd have much else to contribute to this fandom until i rewatched the movie a couple weeks ago and started slowly working on this. also stan is alive here because, well... canon is wrong. the title comes from _would that i_ by hozier!!

Three things simultaneously pop into Eddie's head as he dies: first, _holy fuck,_ because there is a fucking demonic clown claw rearranging his internal organs with every laboured breath he takes and his brain can't formulate a better combination of words that quite encapsulates what that feels like; second, _Jesus Christ I'm probably going to have the saddest excuse of a funeral ever,_ because his only real friends are probably going to die down here with him, leaving boring acquaintances and his wife to organize the event; and finally, _I never got to tell Richie that I —_ and then it all begins to fade away, because he is no longer able to supply enough oxygen to his brain to produce any coherent thoughts. It's probably just as well that he leaves things with a _your mom_ joke, he thinks, because that's what's comfortable between them. Eddie might not be a doctor but he does have common sense that is amplified by years of general terror at the mere prospect of getting sick, and because of this he knows that his breathing is too shallow, and there's too much blood seeping out of his stomach, and that none of them have cell service this far underground. 

(What he doesn't know is that he grew up in a town with glamours and enough magic to fuel a demon clown. What he doesn't know is that his belief, _their belief,_ is what is going to save him). 

He still hangs on, for a while; he hears the friends he just got back cheer in exasperated excitement when they finally kill Pennywise, and he feels them all looming around his slumped body when they remember how they left him. He feels fingers prodding at him for a pulse, and angry voices arguing, and then there's a strangled cry that rings out around them as he is hoisted up by a pair of strong arms. The commotion in the cavern slowly lulls, echoed voices and the crashing of falling debris turning into white noise.

And Eddie dreams of the ocean. 

Well, he doesn't know if it necessarily counts as _dreaming,_ because he's almost positive that he's just lost in some strange limbo phase between life, death and the afterlife. It's also strange because he doesn't have any actual memories of the ocean to provide inspiration for this landscape, despite he and his mother stopping in a coastal town for a few days on their way to New York when he was sixteen. He hears her voice now — making his stomach twist as he remembers her shrill warnings about bacteria and drowning rates and undertows and fucking shark attacks, even, all as she'd gripped his wrist that still ached when it rained, pulling him back to the car in a furious rage when she'd discovered that he'd slipped away from the restaurant while she paid to try and inch closer to the tide that was lapping at the rocky beach. But here he is. 

Eddie dreams of floating away, waves warm as they flow over his suddenly unscathed skin, the air comforting like a blanket in its salty heaviness, feeling cathartic and _free._ Seagulls squawk overhead and the sand looks pink in the dying light of dusk; he finds that he can breathe clearly in the open air and there's no more pain settled deep into his bones. His mother's voice fades away, like it was being burned to a crisp under the power of the sunlight through a magnifying glass. Eddie looks out over the horizon and finds that it all feels so real, so tangible; he watches the setting sun scatter pink reflections over the waves, the strong concentration of bubbles in one area as whales breach, the endless stretch of open, blue water. He shifts his gaze just enough and notices various rock formations that are cut out of the steep cliff of the island that curves around the beach, and there, in the distance, is a person. They should be unrecognizable from this immense distance, but something tells him that this is him, or rather _was_ him; this gangly teenaged version of himself is all wavy, untamed hair that is matted against his forehead from the ocean mist and freckled shoulders, for once looking at ease as he deliberately defies his mother's rules and dives, smoothly, into the water. 

It isn't a memory. It isn't a memory, because Eddie remembers being that age and shrinking away from any open body of water after he memorized all the statistics that his mother would only skim over to use against him as a scare tactic. He was thirteen when he thought he killed a clown, but even kicking and screaming at a demonic manifestation of childhood fear couldn't tame the slowly emerging shame and fear that lingered just under his ribs, beating him into submission again once his mother dragged him out of Derry. He grew older and his list of supposed allergies grew longer, and his self-doubt and anxiety grew stronger by the day. But still, as the younger version of himself disappears under the surface, braver than he ever really was at that age, Eddie finds himself mimicking the movements and submerging himself. He squeezes his eyes tight and moves deeper and deeper. He hears a voice, muffled from the depth of the ocean, faintly calling out his name, drawing him from under the current as he eventually has to come up for air. 

Eddie cracks his eyes open enough to take in the pink-orange sunset that should be streaking the sky with vibrancy, hoping to find the owner of that voice, only to be met with an artificial white light, nothing like he thought it would be growing up. He remembers Sunday school and the itchy clothes, a routine that quickly broke when Eddie was old enough to come up with excuses to avoid it, and his mother could no longer bring herself to care about making weekly appearances at church. But his memories flash before his eyes now, and he weakly thinks, _shouldn't there be a pearly gate, or some shit?_ He at least hoped he'd get to see his dad again when he died. 

He has to try very hard not to think about how fucking heavy his eyelids have become. He pushes past it and begins to wonder if death is just dark, lonely nothingness, until he manages to force his eyes open even more and finds that the bright light is now accompanied by soft voices. All of a sudden, through the once distant sound of _beep—, beep—, beep—_ that is now growing louder and closer, he thinks of being a child and going through monthly hospital visits, and the blood tests and x-rays, and the dread that filled him whenever his mother brought up sickness or germs until it festered into his own anxiety. But he's brought out of the memories by the more comforting sound of a voice coming closer, the same one that he couldn't quite make out when he was still letting himself be washed away by the waves, and Eddie feels nothing but pain and somehow finds it in himself to succumb to the knee-jerk reaction to smile, just a little, at the sound of his name in this person's mouth. A pang of familiarity blooms in his chest as he finally manages to open his eyes all the way, and reassuringly discovers that he isn't dead at all. 

* * *

It's been a few days since he woke up, and he still finds himself startling when he's knocked out of a dream. But he's grown accustomed to everything else, now: the insistent beeping of his monitors, the quiet drip of his IV, the sick-stale scent of a hospital room, the constant murmuring of voices. What he isn't used to is the sudden reality of everything that's happened over the last week, all accumulating in thirty-seven (and counting) missed messages from his wife filling up his voicemail inbox, which he still has to work up the nerve to listen to, and a newfound constant ache over the lower half of his body, and a cruel wound that runs from the bottom of his left ribcage and curls around his navel, dipping down to his right hipbone. It would undoubtedly leave a pretty fucking nasty scar. 

(He'd met with the team of doctors and surgeons that saved his life after he was awake long enough to process information, and he'd learned of everything they'd done: the first surgery to repair muscle tissue and close up the gaping wound in his abdomen; the second to cleanly suture up his cheek. He'd needed two blood transfusions. They had him on fluids and antibiotics for an infection caused, unsurprisingly, by the disgusting greywater in the sewers. He would need physical therapy soon, to help him regain strength in the lower half of his body as the clown's claw was mere millimetres away from striking his spine at a specific point and paralyzing him. One of the doctors had told him that it was a wonder that he was even alive. And Eddie had thought of a world where he didn't do what he did, one where Richie would be lost to the deadlights, one where his friends would be left hopeless and helpless. He would do it all again, and he figured he could live with a fucking scar if he had to). 

Most importantly, however, Eddie's been trying to get used to the constant masked looks of worry from the six people in the world that love him the most, who are putting their lives on hold to stay here with him as he heals. 

"How're we doing today, Eduardo?" 

And then there's this: the swooping, full-body, stabbed-through-the-ribs feeling he gets when he even _looks_ at Richie, let alone when he feels his lingering touches or hears his laugh fill the room, no matter how rare the latter has been, lately. Eddie blinks to clear some of the blurriness in his vision, a result of continued rough sleep and meds that make him drowsy, and Richie's face comes into focus, eyebrows pulled together in worry but his smile remaining so resolutely and lovingly _Richie_ that Eddie can't help but to smile back. And then wince. 

"Eds? Want me to get the nice morphine lady?" Richie asks, and when Eddie shifts and winces again, Richie just quickly moves across the room from where he'd been hovering near the doorway and reaches over to his the button near his pillow. Eddie stops him, though, inhaling sharply and putting a hand on the other man's forearm. 

"Hey, Rich, I'm okay." Eddie manages to say, though it comes out harsh and croaky. He roughly clears his throat and sort of weakly pulls on Richie's sleeve. "I'd love some water, though." 

"Sir, yes sir," Richie says, disappearing out of his room and returning a moment later with a styrofoam cup. "You know, you just have to give me the signal and I'll put my sexy nurse costume on for you, Eds." 

"Fuck you. That'd just make my pain worse, dickhead," Eddie says, through a grin that pulls wide across his face. He tries to ignore the dull pain that spreads from his bandaged cheek. He downs half of his water quickly, absently chewing on the end of the straw while Richie makes himself comfortable: stretching his arms over his head until he felt the satisfying click of joints, leaning back into the chair he'd pulled as close to Eddie as humanly possible, feet kicked up against the base of the bed. Richie's eyes fall on him, and Eddie keeps his returning stare strong before flicking his gaze to the door at the sound of one of his morning nurses shuffling through his file. Eddie glances back, and Richie's eyes are still on him. 

Here's the thing: after all the ugly crying (thanks Richie) and the desperate, clinging hugs (again, thanks Rich, though Mike was almost worse in just how strong his grip was) that happened on the day he woke up and actually showed signs of staying alive, things have finally started to return to normal — if you could even apply that term to their lives. For instance, he's finally managed to convince the others to rest and relax in their own beds at night in their new hotel rooms, just ten minutes away from the hospital rather than the half-hour drive it would take to get back to the townhouse in Derry. And sure, the worried looks are something he's trying to get used to, because these were the only people in the world that didn't consider him weak as a kid. But Stan is still there to call them out on their shit and Bev makes the room light with her stories and honeyed laugh and Ben charms them all with his boyish innocence and random trivia knowledge and Mike brings in stacks of books to pass the time and his laptop loaded with movies when none of them have the attention-span to read and Bill holds them all together. 

He considers Richie to be his only remaining lost cause, because no matter how often Eddie bitches at him or how many times the others try to pull him away, he's still too stubborn to leave longer than the time needed to shower and grab coffee that didn't come from the hospital cafeteria and taste like watered-down shit. Eddie's been noticing more, lately; the way Richie sometimes just shuts down after waking from what was clearly a nightmare that he won't talk about, or how he might latch onto his hand for some reassurance he won't admit to needing, or the concern that flares up in his eyes when Eddie's meds start to wear off. Eddie remembers being a kid and being the only one fully able to keep up with Richie's mouth with his own wit; he remembers holding him under the water at the quarry and staring a little too long at the pinkness of Richie's cheeks when they got too close. He knows that this _thing_ dates back so long that it feels natural, a part of the _RichieandEddie_ package deal. 

So Richie looks, and Eddie looks back. He figures it doesn't have to be a thing unless they make it one, which hasn't happened yet. Richie's eyes finally shift away, the faintest brush of pink to his cheeks, and pretends to fiddle with his phone that isn't even turned on. Eddie glances out the window, a silent victory in making Richie crumble first, and he thinks of how things are becoming good again. He might not be able to walk on his own, yet, and he might need another surgery if this one doesn't take, and he really should talk to his wife — but _still._ Good things. 

Richie's the one to break the admittedly comforting silence, because Eddie's pretty sure that he doesn't like being alone with his thoughts for too long. Everything ends up spilling out of him eventually. Once his nurse has given him his antibiotics and a light dose of morphine to take the edge off the pain and changed his bandages, Richie says, abruptly: "Did I tell you that Big Bill managed to break his toe?" 

And that makes Eddie snort. "No shit." 

After he'd woken up and was desperate for a distraction from the discomfort after his surgeries, the others had offered him the Sparknotes version of what happened in the sewers under the house on Neibolt Street. The crumbling debris and the wails of the dying clown and Richie threatening to stay put and die with Eddie if they didn't pull what they thought was his lifeless body out into the daylight. Ben had plucked him up and they'd run for their lives, and it was only when they'd spilled out onto the cracked concrete of the house's foundations that Eddie began to cough up blood and they realized he was still alive. He understood the gist of it: they got him to the hospital, he was cut out of his destroyed clothes, and whisked away under the hands of half a dozen nurses and doctors. He got the medical rundown from the hospital staff himself. But fuck, he hadn't gotten any funny anecdotes about his friends in his abridged version of what happened, and he's desperate to hear them. 

So Richie launches into the story, and Eddie almost gets lost in the way he imitates their friends' voices almost perfectly and uses his wild hand gestures when he talks, just like he did when they were stupid thirteen-year-olds. But he's brought back in by the sheer ridiculousness of Richie's recounting of events: their bickering over the best routes to the hospital that they barely remembered until Mike took action and jumped into the driver's seat and laid on the horn until the others got the idea and scrambled into the car, letting him speed toward this very facility just outside the Derry-town limits. Bev had apparently climbed into the backseat with Richie and Eddie, and Ben was in charge of calling ahead to the hospital to warn them of the chaos they were bringing their way. Stan was cursing them out in that nervous way of his because they needed a realistic cover story, all while he was cramped in the very back of the car, stuck between cardboard boxes marked with fading Sharpie and Bill, who was angrily crying at the situation. They'd gotten to the hospital and a team of medics had met them at the front entrance, and when news broke that nobody would be allowed back with Eddie most of them let out frustrated curses or started crying. Or both. 

Bill, on the other hand, kicked at a heavy potted plant, only wearing worn-out chucks that offered no protection. He hadn't known that he'd injured himself until last night, when he finally came down from the adrenaline fully, and realized he couldn't walk properly. 

"He's a fucking idiot," Eddie says, grinning, while Richie snort-laughs and impersonates Bill's scream in a volume that is considerably too loud for ten in the morning. Eddie laughs at it anyway. 

Richie stops to catch his breath, long enough to say: "No, no, dear Eddie. He's _our_ fucking idiot." 

When Richie starts laughing again, clearly a little delirious at his lack of sleep, Eddie just thinks: _good things._

He just watches with a smile plastered to his face as Richie's cackles fill the room. Eddie's glad that they're finally starting to talk to him about those several hours where they weren't sure about anything, like Eddie's chance of survival or the probability of the clown actually being dead this time. When Eddie woke up and the scars on their palms faded away, they were comfortable about everything except for one sort of big thing: Bowers. But as Eddie's found out over the last day or two, Mike and Ben, the most level-headed of them all, dealt with the cops and their questioning. Eddie doesn't really know what all of that entails, but the risk of them — read: Richie — getting charged with manslaughter was officially hovering around zero-percent, which is all that Eddie's risk-analyst brain cares about. And he knows that it's hard for Richie especially, because the others didn't shy away from mentioning how roughly Richie had been taking things, spending his time either crying in Bev's arms or pacing the hallways of the hospital, waiting to hear news, until the six of them were taken back to see Eddie in his unconscious, but alive, post-op state. 

So Eddie watches as Richie laughs, his heart in his throat, until Stan walks in with coffee and his arm looped through Bev's. And as Mike and Ben wander in ten seconds later, chatting quietly between themselves, and Bill limps in with a comically large boot, Stan tells Richie to _shut the fuck up, idiot, we could hear you a block away,_ which does nothing to start Richie's laughter, until a nurse comes by and lightly threatens them with losing visitation privileges. It shuts him up. 

Conversation erupts around him as coffees are passed around, and Eddie feels enveloped in it as they all sit in a half-circle around him, close by and offering their warmth. He glances at Richie, lost in telling a story to Stan, and vaguely remembers murmured declarations into his neck as he thought he was dying: _I love you, I love you, don't you fucking leave yet, I love you, we need you._ Eddie wonders how real the words were; he wonders if Richie even remembers the way his voice cracked on _love._ More than anything, it makes Eddie question where exactly they stand with one another. 

* * *

_Inbox: 52 New Messages_

_Message (1): "Eddie-bear! I've been worried sick! You can't just come home after getting into a car accident and pack a bag and tell me not to worry about anything, dear! What so-called friends are more important than me? I've never even met them, how do I know that they're right for you? I need to know where you are, Eddie, you know that you can't take care of yourself like I can --" (Message deleted)_

_(Message deleted)_

_(Message deleted)_

_(Message deleted)_

_Message (18): "Edward! A hospital in Maine called today requesting your insurance information! What are you doing so far away? What happened?! I told you those people you call friends would just make you even more sick! You're not allowed to leave my sight again, Eddie-bear, this is what happens when you leave the people that you love most! Do you understand me? --" (Message deleted)_

_Message (29): "Hello, Edward Kaspbrak? This is Johnathan McPherson, from the HR department at Hawthorne and Associates? It's come to our attention that you have missed more than a week of work, and you did not request any of this time off. Management has become unimpressed with this behaviour and the dozens of clients that you've left unhappy. We would appreciate a call back to confirm your well-being, and we can discuss your position moving forward --" (Message saved)_

_Message (34): "Your work is threatening your job, Eddie! How dare you do this to us?! You need to come home immediately because I am completely shaken by this and I've realized that I apparently have to do everything for us, including taking care of you, because nobody else in the world would ever want to to the job! I am your wife, Eddie, our vows promised in sickness and in health, remem --" (Message deleted)_

_(Message deleted)_

_(Message deleted)_

_(Message deleted)_

* * *

His fifteenth night in the hospital ends up being one of the roughest. 

He'd gotten frustrated during physical therapy, his legs still not functioning in the way his mind willed them too. His whole body has just felt _weak,_ in a way that it hasn't since he took up running and a light weight-lifting regimen in college. His PT is a nice woman, who often talks about her young twins at home when he needs a distraction as she stretches his legs, slowly broadening his range of motion. She has warm and welcoming eyes, dark brown and practically swimming with golden light, and her voice is soothing with years of experience at calming patients and keeping them uplifted. But today, even she couldn't keep him in a positive enough mood to work through the stress and self-hatred, and told him they'd end early and pick things up in the morning. And Eddie's been in a generally pissy mood ever since, because this feels like something he should be able to conquer. But he's still barely able to take steps even _with_ his hospital-issued walker, and the ache that runs through his body continues to linger, long after he's finished his attempted exercises. 

Eddie thinks that a lot of it is because he keeps getting stuck in his own head, remembering his mother, thinking of his wife, both of them keeping him pushed down into this position of thinking himself as weak and something that needs to be cared for. He doesn't — he doesn't want to feel that way, anymore, he fucking wants to get _better,_ and his goddamned legs won't let him.

He gets his evening dose of meds after he eats bland chicken and vegetables, trying to be as pleasant as possible as Mike and Bill wish him goodnight. The sun is setting as they walk out of his room, promising to return in the morning, their shadows cutting across the cream-coloured blanket tucked around the bottom half of his body, as Richie slips in after them. His hair is clearly recently washed and soft-looking, his clothes changed from jeans and a Hawaiian button-down to sweats and a fading shirt printed with the logo from his tour in '04: his sleep clothes. It's become a bit of a ritual — Eddie will vent about his day if it's been bad or laugh with him if it was good, and Richie will talk to him about nothing in particular until one of them eventually passes out first: either Eddie in his bed, prompted by the meds, or Richie in his claimed chair. 

Tonight, though, Eddie pointedly ignores Richie for the most part, not wanting to get him wrapped up in the tornado brewing in his mind. He just continues to scroll through his phone, idly flipping between the Twitter app he barely uses, except to read the news and make a small enough presence in his office by following his coworkers and liking their mundane posts, and his strained conversation with his wife, whom he finally texted an hour ago. He was already in a shitty enough mood; may as well add fuel to the fire. 

He reads over his most recent message — _Listen, I'm in Mercy Hospital and Rehabilitation Center, just outside Derry, Maine. You can come if you want. We need to have a serious talk either way._ — and he finds himself frowning down at his screen. He can only stare at it for so long before he opts to flip back to Twitter and watch cat videos on mute instead of waiting for a response. 

He hadn't had the balls to tell her right then and there: _I want a divorce._ It's been hanging heavy on him since he fucking got to Derry and started remembering again, but if he's being honest with himself it's been on his mind more and more lately, as he's fallen deeper into a general unhappiness over the past couple of years. He has power over his life now, he tries to tell himself, but he just couldn't do it. Not yet. Eddie swallows thickly and glances over at Richie, who's just shovelling spoonful after spoonful of his uneaten lime jello from dinner into his mouth, expectantly looking at him to start the conversation. When Eddie doesn't talk, Richie just says, generally, "Well?" 

Eddie just sort of shakes his head. He knows he can express how pissed off he is to Richie without any shame, but the words sit heavy on his tongue. It's strange, though, because he never held back anything when they were kids. But now Richie never leaves him the fuck alone, which he appreciates deep down in his soul, this air of silent devotion around him that inevitably seeps into the deeper meanings of their late-night conversations and — and Eddie doesn't know how to bring it up. Or talk about it, without wanting to shrink into himself, which is something he never does around Richie, or any of the others. 

So he talks about his shitty days. Or he doesn't talk at all. 

"I guess we're just playing the quiet game tonight, then?" Richie asks, faintly drumming the beat to an obscure song against his thighs. He stops after a moment, instead crossing his arms over his chest. "You're on, Spaghetti. Lemme tell you, I fucking rule at —" 

"There's literally no possible way that you're good at the quiet game, Rich, it goes against the laws of physics." Eddie quickly says, and when Richie raises his eyebrows at him, Eddie sighs. "Fine. Fuck. It wasn't good today, okay? She keeps telling me that I'm strong and that things will get better with time and I'm just sick of these fucking...empty promises, or whatever. I just hate being weak." 

"Eds, hey, nothing about you is weak." Richie looks so earnest as he says it, absently touching Eddie's arm as he speaks. Eddie latches onto that point of connection, fingers-to-forearm, like a fucking vice. _You're braver than you think._ It echoes through him. 

And then the dam breaks. 

"I hate that I'm still in here," Eddie says, glancing out at the moonlight that has now started to filter in through the wide slats of the blinds. Richie's hand drops from Eddie's skin, as if he's just now realized that he was touching him. Eddie suddenly feels cold. "I hate that the others have to be trapped in this shitty town with me. I hate that _you_ are a complete dumbass and won't leave me to even get a decent night's sleep.That chair's gotta be killing your back, Rich. And, like, I'm not going to die in my sleep, or whatever." 

He doesn't mention how secretly grateful he is for Richie's refusals at leaving his side. He doesn't mention how much he loves his friends and their devotion. He doesn't have to. 

At first, Richie just shrugs and lets the words hit him. Eddie watches as he jerks his hand away from reaching out again, caught in mid-air, a failed attempt at self-control. So Eddie just takes charge and makes the move for him, curling his fingers around Richie's wrist, calmness spreading through him as he feels the gentle _thrum thrum thrum_ of his pulse under his thumb. He tries to ignore the quickening pace as he holds his hand there. A nurse pokes her head into the doorway then, and when she's satisfied with his blood pressure and vitals, offers them both a quiet and well-meaning, _goodnight._

They've been less harsh on the visitation rules, as of late. Maybe it's because of all of the yelling that his friends did when they were kicked out on his second night of being admitted, or maybe it's because Richie is pulling his famous-comedian card. Part of him thinks it's just the nurses being sympathetic: he nearly died, and the Losers have been his only visitors, his only sort of family, and Richie is constantly at his side and is constantly making dumb eyes at him like he hasn't noticed. The others have probably noticed. The nurses have _definitely_ noticed, and Eddie's caught them on more than one occasion throwing pitiful glances at the two of them when Richie isn't paying attention. Eddie wonders: _what does he see in me?_ And it will take him some time to realize that he can answer himself: _the same thing you see in him._ He pushes those thoughts down and it balls into a swirling pit of tension in his stomach. How real can all of this be? He chalks it up to adrenaline and near-death-experiences, because the truth is too scary, too revealing, to consider. 

He thinks of his wife again. He thinks of Richie's heavy, adoring stares. The tension wells up like bile in the back of his throat. 

It takes him a moment to realize that Richie's clearly let Eddie's words register in his mind, because the man's sudden sniffling has started to border on full-on sobbing, and so Eddie sits up a little more in bed, blanket tucking in around his waist. "Hey, Rich, what's up?" 

"Jesus," Richie mutters, pulling off his glasses and dragging his hands down his face. He looks tired, completely drained, and clearly coffee and vending machine snacks and quick showers can't change the fact that he hasn't been properly sleeping. He oftentimes looks like he's itching for a cigarette, or a shot, or an Ambien, maybe. There's a constant pinch between his eyebrows, now, etched into his skin from all of his worrying, and Eddie sort of wants to smooth it away with his thumb. There are bruises under his eyes. The various scrapes from the fighting in Neibolt have mostly healed over, though Bev still apparently makes him ice the bruising down his side from his ten-foot fall to the ground. Richie looks at him, eyes just a little shiny, his sob tamed for now. Eddie somehow finds the restraint within himself to not reach out and run his fingers through his curls, like he knows Maggie Tozier used to do for him when he cried. His anger at the day suddenly washes away, tucked to the back of his mind for another time. "Sorry, I'm just. I've been a wreck, lately, ignore me." 

"Come up here." Eddie says suddenly. 

Richie blinks. "Uh—" 

"I mean it, Rich. Just sleep up here, there's room."

"This bed might be big enough for your freakishly small body, but —" 

Eddie sighs. "Fuck off, Richard. Just get in the bed and get some fucking proper sleep." 

Richie complies easily, then, and it's tight — but they do, in fact, fit. Richie faces the door, turned onto his side, as close to the edge of the bed as he can physically be without falling off to give Eddie all the room he needs to be comfortable. Eddie rolls his eyes at that, and finds it easy to just sort of rest his arm over Richie's ribs; to wait for him to flinch away, and when he just jerks a little before settling into the touch, Eddie just rests behind him and lets his heartbeat against Richie's shoulders remind him that he's here, he's safe — they all are, now — and if nothing else, they're alive. 

* * *

Eddie dreams of the ocean, and this time, there's a storm.

The sky is all swirling clouds of grey and blue, heavy with rain that will fall at any moment, now. The waves are angry, thrashing, colliding heavily with the beach as the wind picks up. The course of flight for various birds above him are tampered with as they try and fail to soar through the sudden obstacle of rain and wind. He should be scared, but he isn't. Eddie waits, and waits, and when the water pulls him under, he doesn't know how to get back to the surface — and even then, he isn't scared. 

* * *

"Okay, so, I have to tell you guys something." 

The energy in his room is light, today. Bordering on happy, even. Bev and Ben strolled in with donuts from some fancy bakery in Bangor, and Eddie was finally experiencing some improvement in physical therapy. Stan has been laughing through some story about his and Patty's honeymoon for the past ten minutes, and he doesn't look too upset when Richie abruptly cuts him off, looking at him like he knows what Richie is about to say. Eddie tracks the way that Stan puts his hand on Richie's shoulder, a source of comfort, and Eddie starts to grow worried when Richie says: "For some reason I feel like now's a good time to tell you guys that I'm gay." 

It hangs in the air after he says it. Richie's voice is quieter than usual, but the words spill out quickly, like ripping off a bandaid. His wedding ring suddenly feels like it weighs fifty pounds. He has to divorce his wife. 

(His heart is drawn to Richie like a moth to the flame). 

The words continue to swirl around him: _I'm gay._ He's lost in it as the others grin and tackle Richie into a hug, nearly causing him to fall onto his ass on the disgusting hospital floor. _I'm gay._ The earth practically opens up and swallows Eddie whole. He remembers his mother and the faces she'd make when reading stories in the paper about the liberation marches in New York; he remembers being ten and confused at the neighbourhood's sudden disdain for Sally and Derek Wright, who had a daughter that moved to San Francisco and was publicly going steady with another woman. He remembers shame burning like battery acid in his stomach. He remembers a dorm room and his floppy-haired roommate who tried to kiss him when he was drunk, and Eddie's skin turning to fire before he officially started dating Myra a week later. Richie's eyes meet his as Stan and Ben hold onto him, Bev still gripping his hand hard enough to turn his knuckles white. His eyes are hopeful, scared, and are begging him for a response. 

"We love you, we always will," Eddie says, hoping it's the answer he wants. Richie's still smiling in that strained way of his as his gaze begins to fall. Eddie thinks of how it would be so easy to say: _I think I'm gay, too._ He can't. He doesn't know for sure. He adds in a whisper: "We're proud of you, Rich." 

His heart aches. 

* * *

This time in his dreamscape, he finds it in himself to swim quickly. 

Runner's legs and good stamina helps him even here, and he catches his younger self before he dives. It's like he's looking into a distorted, fun house mirror, watching as this teenager who is both him and nothing like him as he is now watches _him._ Eddie takes a deep breath, and the kid version of himself does the same. They blink, and they end up in the shallows of the water. 

"I've got you, kid." Eddie says, the words just sort of spilling out. He's half expecting the other him to just repeat the words and not take any meaning from them, but he doesn't. Instead, he just falls back against the slow current of the waves, arms spread wide, and Eddie holds him up with hands under his back just in case he worries about losing his newfound control and going under. And there they are, two terrified boys almost thirty years apart, the same scars branded on their minds and across their bellies, now, letting the warm salt water lap over their skin and attempt to mend their wounds. It is beautiful and it is too much all at once, and that's when Eddie wakes up. 

* * *

Eddie remembers the day they got married, because it's practically burned into his brain. 

May 17th, 1998. His mother passed away a year before, weeks before he walked across a stage and got a degree. He graduated college. His mother was dead. And his girlfriend was there for him, the only sliver of normalcy he was raised to find comfort in that he could find in a bustling new world. She was a little over-bearing, a little too protective, and admittedly a little manipulative. Despite all the red flags, Eddie was openly discussing the possibility of marriage with her all throughout their shared college experience, and barely blinked when a wedding was pencilled into their five-year-plan. Then he was proposing, during their first summer of living alone together. She'd already had everything planned out, and with a ring on her finger she went to work: organizing a venue and passing over his list of allergies to a bewildered caterer and telling Eddie which suit to rent and how to write his vows and when to show up. 

It rained on their wedding day. He was twenty-two years old, getting married to a woman he wasn't sure that he loved, and it was raining. Their whole wedding party promised it was good luck, but Eddie knew deep in his gut that this wasn't how he was supposed to feel when he got married. But he stuttered through the vows and pressed a barely-there kiss to his wife's lips, and now eighteen years later, he's survived the wrath of a demon clown — twice — and he thinks he might be in love with his best friend. 

(He told Bev first, because she's _Bev._ She could tell something was up right away, by the way he kept wringing his hands and averting his gaze from her. But she just sat cross-legged at the foot of his bed, reached out and took his hands in hers and told him, as some sort of ice breaker, about her soon to be ex-husband and her internal realization and acceptance that she deserved someone better. She deserved to be _happy._ And Eddie started shaking worse than before and he stuttered out those words, _I think I'm — I'm, fuck, I really like Richie._ Bev had crawled up the bed and gently curled her arms around him, whispering _it's okay, Eddie,_ and it only set him off, letting himself crack as he hugged her back.)

Myra doesn't want to come to the hospital. All it takes is him typing out those fateful words — _I think I'm gay, I just needed you to know that_ and _I want a divorce_ — for her to send him a string of profanities that she never used, proclaiming that it was his new friends that turned him this way; that it was his new friends that were pulling him away from her. That pissed him off more, but before he could say anything, Myra told him that her lawyer would be in touch. And that she wanted _her_ apartment. 

He could handle that. 

"So you really did it, huh," Richie says, arms crossed tight across his chest as he glances down at the side table next to Eddie's bed, where his wedding ring sits, blandly gold in the weak morning light. There's a sense of finality in the way that it sits by itself, officially separated from everything Eddie is, now. He wants to throw it in a fucking incinerator. 

There's a quiet moment that passes between them, then, and Eddie watches as Richie takes him in. His heart rate quickens and he's suddenly thankful that he's no longer sick enough to be hooked up to the heart monitor. Eddie takes in the broadness of Richie's shoulders, the way the corner of his mouth perpetually quirks up in a half smile. He takes a quick breath and tries to pass the moment off by scratching at the back of his neck, jerking Richie's attention away from his face and toward the moving tendons and muscle in his wrist. Eddie clears his throat again, and tries to remember what they'd been talking about. 

His coming divorce. Right. 

"Yeah, fuck. I feel alive man, holy shit," Eddie says, grinning, truly losing himself again in the feeling of having an impossible weight lifted off his shoulders. "She's taking the apartment." 

It's an open-ended statement, leaving it up in the air for Richie to swing at. Which he does, with a smirk. The fucker. 

"Well, I'm sure Mikey would love your company," Richie says, and then gets a bright gleam in his eye. "Ooh! Or dear Ben and Bev, you could sleep next door while they christen the —" 

"Beep beep, fuckface!" Eddie slaps at Richie's arm. Richie snorts and plops himself down on Eddie's bed, both of them settling onto their sides — because that's a thing, now — and both of them stare up at the ceiling aimlessly. It goes quiet for a few moments, and Eddie's not sure what he should say or how he can ask when Richie finally says: 

"You know you can stay with me, Eds. I've got too much room in my place, anyway." 

Eddie smiles a bit, knocking his head toward Richie. "Thanks, Rich." 

He finds himself absently tracing the pale band of skin around his ring finger with his thumb, thinking of a life lived with Richie. Not _with,_ but like. In the same house. Co-existing. It would be nice, he thinks, though he'd never tell Richie that because the fucker would let it go to his head immediately. He glances over at Richie again and watches as he picks up one of the cheesy romance books that got swept up into Mike's various stacks of offerings from the library, and actually gets involved in reading it. Eddie watches him, tells himself he's being an idiot — it was a friendly offering, after all, lots of forty-year-old friends are roommates, _right?_ — and texts with Bev instead of thinking about his heart trying to leap out of his chest. 

* * *

"So, I already told Bev but, uh. I think I might be in love with Richie." 

Stan looks at him blankly when he says it, and then literally walks out of the room. Eddie had been momentarily brave as the others were out getting food, leaving him alone with one of his oldest friends. And now he feels like he's been slapped in the face a little bit, but after several long moments Stan returns, running a hand through his hair. 

"You two made me age like fifty years by the time I was fifteen, and I want you to know it was because of this."

"What, us being gay?" 

Stan sighs. "No, the fact that you two are fucking _idiots._ Tell him. Today, please, I think I might go bald otherwise." 

"But what if he—" 

"All I can tell you is that you won't regret it. And I love you, but I promised Patty that I'd call her. So," Stan gets up and presses a kiss to Eddie's temple, dramatically but with sweet intentions, like he always was as a kid. "Goodnight, lover boy." 

Eddie huffs, wanting to whisper _fuck you,_ but he crumbles because it's Stan and he just says, "goodnight," back. 

* * *

"You ready for this, Eddie?" 

He takes a deep sigh as he stares at Denise, several feet away from him. All that separates them is a stretch of black mat that is flanked by supportive beams on either side. His walker is moved to the side, and he uses the back of his hand to wipe away some of the sweat beading at his hairline. 

"Look, maybe it's too soon. Statistically speaking —" 

"Don't get into that, Eddie." Denise is soothing, sure, but she's also straightforward and has already picked up on his tactics. "You're strong. You're _ready_ , you just have to trust that you are." 

Eddie takes another deep breath, and tests one foot against the mat. He's regained most of his strength in his legs, thanks to the various exercises, but he's not sure that he fully trusts his own ability yet. 

"You've got it, Eddie." 

Denise's voice is what pushes him to take that first step, hands curled impossibly tight around the beams. He imagines walking away from the hold of his mother, his soon-to-be ex-wife, every childhood fear that wraps around his brain like a restraint. He takes another step, gritting his teeth as he does so. And then he takes another. 

"I did it." Eddie whispers, mostly to himself, as he takes the final step. He finds that he's grinning by the time he's stepping off the mat, and he meets Denise's eyes. "I did it." 

"Of course you did," Denise beckons him forward and then grins when he sturdies himself. She grabs his walker from the other side of the room and he uses it to maneuver himself to one of the cushioned massage tables. She rubs at his leg muscles and works on his range of motion, which has improved considerably in the short month they've spent together. "I'm telling you, knowing what you've gone through? You're probably one of the strongest people I've had walk through here." 

"No pun intended," Eddie mutters, and she laughs, helping him finish his stretches. He thinks, proudly: _I've got this._

* * *

Over the next week, he doesn't get as much alone time with Richie. He doesn't want to risk their nightly ritual of sleeping in the same bed by telling him then, and during the day he's got physical therapy and various tests for his doctors and time to spend with the others, as one big group — as it should be — so it doesn't come up. But that's also because bigger, better things begin happening: like walking. 

He has to use a cane, of course, and he's limited to walking around his own room or the therapy gym, but still. It's comforting knowing that there won't be too much lasting damage to his legs from nearly dying, and even though he'll carry the scar with him forever, it's a small price to pay to have this sense of freedom back again. He walks back and forth, regaining the strength in his legs. He is able to move on from the disgusting sponge baths and properly showers, again, and nearly cries when he's able to step under that hot spray of water and clean himself from head to toe for the first time. He looks...different, to say the least, when he finally looks at his reflection again. There's a shadow of facial hair along his jaw and the stab would in his cheek has pretty much fully healed, leaving behind a pale pink, crooked scar that sends a twist of disgust through his body, until he remembers that it's a mark of being alive. He touches it with his fingertips, and swallows down his fear. Anxiety still lurches up his body and he knows it's something he'll have to figure out how to healthily deal with, but he's ready to move forward. 

He's clean and he's mobile and he's free. he's going to be released sometime in the next week, after the doctors are happy with his process. He'll have to continue to attend physical therapy appointments several times a week for the next few months, but that's okay with him. Maybe he'll ask about recommendations for therapists in L.A.

* * *

Eddie dreams of the ocean, and the voice of his younger self tells him that he'll always be afraid. 

He dives into the water, and tries to find a way out. 

* * *

"We love you so much, Eddie," Bev says, as she grips him tight. They've been hugging for approximately three minutes, and he refuses to let go until another two have passed. He'd hold onto her forever if he could, but she and Ben have a flight to catch. 

"I love you, too," Eddie whispers, mostly into her hair. _Thank you for being there for me thank you for saving me thank you for letting me be myself. Thank you for the donuts, because they were really fucking good._ "Thank you, Marsh." 

She pulls back with a sniff and lets Ben get his hug in, big bear arms curling around Eddie. The hug doesn't last quite as long as the one with Bev, but there's just as much love there, and Eddie already feels how much he's going to miss them. But it's time for them to go home and live their lives, just like it's time for him to leave the hospital and figure out what he's going to do with his. They're all already planning on meeting up again once everyone has settled down, all of them half-joking about having some joint celebration when Bev and Eddie's divorces are finalized. 

Richie's been packing at his hotel room, and Eddie's been scouring the hospital room he's been living in for the past two months for his belongings to pack into his bag. Mike left earlier in the morning with the books and Eddie practically tackled him into a hug, and he's long gone on the road, now. He'd be driving to Florida, and then figuring out where he wanted to go from there. Bill and Stan left the night before, going to the airport together before flying out to L.A and Georgia, respectively. He already misses them, but they aren't forgetting, which is good because none of them were planning to go down without a fight. They would remember each other because there wasn't any other viable option. 

"Okay, shit, we really should go." Bev says, pressing another kiss to his unscarred cheek, hugging him briefly once more before the Uber driver is honking at them and they have to leave to make it to the airport in time. 

Eddie hugs his arms against himself as he watches them leave, and when the car is out of sight he takes a deep breath of the now early Autumn air, tipping his head back and closing his eyes for a brief moment. It feels like it lasts a lifetime. 

* * *

Eddie dreams of the ocean and — _you're always going to be afraid._

_You're always going to be afraid._

_You're always going to be afraid._

He tries to ignore his younger self, and lets out a scream to drown out the noise. 

* * *

Eddie leaves the hospital on a crisp, late September afternoon, exactly two months and three days after nearly dying. Richie slings his arm over Eddie's shoulder and brings him in close, capturing a photo of the two of them with the outside of the hospital as the backdrop, sending it to the new Losers groupchat and captioning it with: _he's a free man at last lady and gents!!!!!_ Eddie can't help but to notice how happy he looks in the photo, pressed against Richie's side, arm slung tightly around the other man's waist, the sun reflecting bright in the lenses of Richie's glasses. He's got strict rules from his doctors: no heavy lifting for at least another month, and a required amount of movement and light exercise to keep his healing going strong. Because of this, Richie's the one packing up his car, and Eddie's stomach lurches because this is happening. 

Richie grins ear-to-ear once they're on the road, glancing over to Eddie to ask: "So where to first, Eduardo?" 

The first thing that Eddie has noticed since leaving the hospital a mere five minutes ago is that it is incredibly strange to be sitting in a car, again. He's also deeply enthralled in the way that Richie drives, specifically; fingers thrumming out the melodies of whatever's on the radio against the wheel, always making sharp turns like he remembers where he wants to go mid-thought, and always, always talking, but that isn't new. 

"I need to fucking eat," Eddie says, and so they go on a mission to find food good enough to act as Eddie's first post-hospital meal. 

They end up settling on some family-style diner, something right out of their childhoods, and they are seated as the sun begins to set, shading the sky in clouds of violet. The red vinyl of the booth is sticky and peeling away, and the menu is barely held together by glue, anymore, and Eddie is able to put all of that behind him because Richie is making weird faces at the kid seated across from them, behind her mother's back. The little girl squeals in laughter and Eddie shakes his head at him, but he also sort of wants to kiss him, and he hasn't figured out how to approach that yet. So he settles on what feels natural. 

"Have you finally found someone who actually finds you funny?" Eddie asks, kicking at him under the table. 

Richie holds his hands against his chest. "You used to think I was _hysterical_." 

"Not true." 

"It's _so_ true, Eds. You just don't wanna admit it." Richie smiles at the waitress when she brings them their drinks: ice water and lemon for Eddie, a rootbeer fucking float for Richie. Because he's actually twelve, still. Richie licks at some of the ice cream dripping down his glass, and Eddie rolls his eyes to ignore the pull in him to watch, feeling heat in his cheeks. He sips at his water and glances out the window they're sitting next to, watching the rain while Richie slurps at his drink. Their food eventually comes, and Eddie picks at his fries while feeling distracted by the way the neon sign in the window illuminates Richie's face in pink and green. 

Little conversation passes between them as they eat, allowing for the sounds of the diner around them to envelop their booth. There's the chatter spilling over from other tables, the shrill laugh of a teenage girl at the counter, the bell over the door. Eddie watches as the atmosphere shifts when the rain stops and the sun has set almost completely, leaving only streaks of purple-orange-pink along the horizon. More couples start taking up the booths that flank them, large groups of friends come in and chairs scrape along the tiled floor as tables meant for four are taken over by nine or ten people. Eddie finds comfort in the sound of the pinball machine in the corner ringing out loudly every time there's a winner, and the way Richie seems to light up amidst it all. 

They find out that the diner is apparently famous locally for its handmade desserts. It only takes Richie watching the table across from them getting hefty pieces of banana cream pie for him to politely wave down their waitress and ask for as many plates of her personal favourites as possible. 

"You're going to have a sugar overdose," Eddie says, watching as the waitress starts placing plate after plate in front of them. 

Richie grins at him. "At least you're here to save me, Eds." 

Eddie holds his gaze, like so many nights in the hospital, and eventually the surface of their table is covered: there are plates of pies, apple and cherry and lemon meringue; chocolate cake and strawberry cheesecake and cream puffs. 

"Come on, Eddie. You're alive! You're a new man! We're allowed to indulge a little." Richie pulls the piece of apple pie closer to him, and laughs at whatever joke's brewing inside his mind before he can even say it. He pulls the other plates with slices of pie on them closer, too, still grinning. Through giggles that he tries to hide behind the back of his hand, he says: "Look, Eds, I've only got _pies_ for you." 

The thing is: the pun is so profoundly, blindingly stupid and barely even makes sense, that a laugh rips out of Eddie as if it was plucked from the walls of his chest, barely listening as Richie starts explaining — _like 'eyes for you', right? Get it? —_ and Eddie is hit with the cold-hard truth that he is so, stupidly in love with Richie that it almost hurts. Richie lights up, because it's been his life's mission to make him laugh. 

"You're an idiot," Eddie says, but he's still smiling. 

Richie rests his chin in his hand, voice dropping down as he quietly admits: "I wasn't lying." 

Eddie opens his mouth to speak but finds that he doesn't have the words. He swallows thickly, and remembers Stan and his all-knowing _you two are fucking idiots._ He remembers last-chance declarations in a crumbling clown lair. He remembers Richie's quiet devotion with every passing moment he spent cooped up in the hospital with Eddie, ignoring his manager and every possible chance he had to appear on some podcast or late night show to try and patch up his career, Richie muttering that making sure Eddie was okay was more important to him. 

"You know, I'm pretty sure I've been in love with you since I knew what love was. Like, sure, I'd see my parents and know objectively that since they were married and relatively happy together that they were in love, but it was such an abstract concept for my fucking brain to try and understand. And then I made you laugh, for real, for the first time." Richie stops, shrugs, like he isn't letting his heart bleed out on this sticky fucking diner table in the middle of Nowhere, Maine. "I was a goner, man. I didn't even remember you for nearly thirty years and I think I've been like, subconsciously yours since we were twelve." 

Eddie just stops and thinks: _oh shit._

"I— fuck, Rich." Eddie runs his hands through his hair, and down his face. A little laugh escapes him unconsciously. "I don't even know how to begin telling you how much I love you. I was in a shitty marriage for eighteen years and I came back here and saw you again and just _knew,_ you know? I don't think I'd want to leave here and survive without you." 

Richie looks like he's about to cry. He's also beaming. Eddie's sure he looks the same. There's so much that should be on their minds: settling the terms of his divorce, getting comfortable in L.A, figuring out their careers. They should be fucking finishing this table full of desserts. Eddie still feels the shame lapping at his heels, but he squashes it down because Richie is in love with him, he's in love with Richie, and they don't have to hide anymore. 

***

They leave the diner a little while later with roughly ten take-out boxes, filled with half-eaten desserts and some that they just couldn't get to. They make sure to leave a huge tip and the moon is out by the time they make it across the parking lot to Richie's car. 

It's almost like they're too nervous to touch each other, which doesn't quite make sense. Eddie sticks his hands in his pockets and watches Richie carefully balance the containers in the backseat, thinking that they should probably start thinking about what hotel they'd be staying at for the night. Their flight leaves early in the morning, getting them to California by the late afternoon. Eddie finds it hard to believe that by this time tomorrow, he'll be settling into a new life in a new state, this simmering heat between the two of them out in the open and _known,_ now, adding a whole new layer to this thing they've always seemed to have. He'll have a fresh start, with his belongings slowly being shipped over from New York. 

_You're always going to be afraid._ The dream echoes through his mind and Eddie feels that swooping feeling again, that lurch deep in his stomach. 

"I'm not scared," Eddie finds himself whispering, an affirmation to both versions of himself, old and current: he was going to do whatever he wanted to, whatever he had to. He was going to be brave. He watches as Richie stands up straight again at the sound of Eddie's voice, pushing his fingers through his hair in a very pointed way that suggests his anxiety about it thinning. Eddie loves him, he loves him, _he loves him._

"What was that, Eds?" Richie asks, absently pushing his glasses up his nose, a tick Eddie picked up on way back when they were in middle school. 

He almost shrinks down again, into himself, letting the pool of anxiety drown him. But he remembers the dream, and trying to push away the words that tried to make him weak. He remembers Richie's confession, in a dimly lit diner less than an hour from the town they were brutally bullied in, a revelation whispered bravely in a place where anybody could hear. Eddie confessed, too. He was brave just half an hour ago, and he could do it again. Eddie inhales, and steps closer. 

"I said that I'm not scared of this." 

"I'm not following, Eds, I—" 

Richie's words are swallowed up by Eddie's mouth on his, muffled until all that he can muster out is a soft, resounding, _"oh."_ His face has gone pink again and he's barely kissed back, and Eddie wonders if he's overstepped some invisible line even though he knows that this aching, yearning feeling hangs over them both. He's lost in his mind, again, and so Eddie practically soars to the moon when Richie chases his mouth and kisses him back, a whole lifetime of want warming them both from the inside out. Eddie pulls Richie closer, tugging at the folds of his shirt near his waist; Richie has one of his hands on Eddie's neck, and he turns his head slightly to find a better angle. 

They pull back to breathe, and Richie sharply inhales through his nose as his forehead presses against Eddie's. His glasses make things a little awkward, but Richie still kisses him again and again, grinning wide as he mutters, "I love you so much, holy fuck," against the corner of his mouth. Eddie pulls him even closer, finding it impossible not to smile into it as he kisses Richie again. 

He wants to do this forever. 

* * *

Eddie dreams of the ocean, and it's back to how it once was. 

This time, the sky is pink and orange where it nearly touches the smooth expanse of the water; it turns blue and becomes streaked with purple clouds the higher up Eddie looks. He closes his eyes and feels the waves pass over his body, and the warm breeze against his face, and feels at home. He lets himself be submerged, only for a moment, and is reminded of what freedom feels like. Only this time when he wakes up, that freedom and sense of healing follows him out into the real world. Because when he wakes up, there's Richie with bedhead and Richie offering to make them breakfast only to burn their toast and end up ordering them blueberry pancakes from the place around the corner. When he wakes up, there's Richie passed out next to him, comfortable and at ease with Eddie's arm over him, the two of them tangled together as sunlight streams into their bedroom. When he wakes up late one morning in November, there's Richie next to him with his laptop on his knees, staring at the local dog rescue's website and talking excitedly about an available puppy named Waffles. 

When he wakes up it's to sunlight and warmth and a bustling groupchat, rife with morning texts and updates from Mike's impromptu trip to Alaska and a photo of Bev's engagement ring and a video of Stan's cat doing cat things and messages confirming their planned weeklong get-together, at Ben and Bev's country house around the holidays. He goes to physical therapy until he walks with only a slight limp that acts up after long days on his feet and some aching in his joints when a storm is incoming. He has scars that he'll never get rid of, but he's growing to accept them, even if anxiety still leaves him apprehensive some mornings. Nightmares come and go, but he has Richie and Richie has him. 

He wakes up to a new life well lived and the promise of more good things to come, and a sense of happiness deep in his bones. It's to the chance of being brave and being free, with every passing moment. And that's all that Eddie can ask for. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!!


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